Nightborne dragged himself out of the spare room above Fern & Finch Café as the first rays of sunlight spilled across the rooftops. Yesterday had taught him a harsh truth: on Earth, success didn't come with convenient system notifications—it arrived through paychecks and shelter. He pulled on the borrowed jeans and T-shirt from Dr. Hale, slung the canvas bag over his shoulder, and stepped into the quiet morning streets, determination masking his uncertainty.
The corner grocery store was his first target. He arrived early, nervously smoothing his hair in the reflection of the sliding doors. The manager—a woman with practical efficiency in every movement—gestured him to a folding chair, clipboard poised.
"Why do you want this job?" she asked, pen hovering expectantly.
Nightborne's mind emptied. In the games he'd played, there were dialogue options, clear paths forward. Here, the silence stretched painfully.
"I... I eat groceries?" he finally managed, immediately wishing he could rewind time.
She blinked once, scribbled something, and said flatly, "We'll let you know." He nodded weakly and fled, his cheeks burning with embarrassment.
Seven blocks and countless rehearsed answers later, he stood in a fast-food diner, trying to control his fidgeting as the shift manager studied him over her glasses.
"What's your greatest weakness?" she asked.
He'd prepared for this one, recalling advice from internet forums he'd browsed at the library. "I... care too much about making people happy?" The words sounded hollow even to him.
Her polite smile never reached her eyes. "Thank you for coming in." The paperwork reclaimed her attention, his dismissal clear without being stated.
By noon, he'd failed interviews at both a hardware store and the public library—his lack of references and unfamiliarity with their systems proving insurmountable barriers. Four interviews, four rejections. He slumped on a curb outside the library, staring into his empty bag, the weight of his situation settling like stone in his stomach.
Hunger gnawed at him, and the question of tonight's shelter loomed. The city that had seemed so fascinating yesterday now felt vast and indifferent, a maze with no solution.
"You look like you've had better days," a familiar voice called.
Looking up, he saw Mara approaching, a steaming mug extended toward him. He accepted it gratefully, the warmth seeping into his fingers a small comfort against the chill of rejection.
"Still hunting for work?" she asked, her eyes showing an understanding that didn't feel like pity.
He nodded. "I'm struggling more than I expected."
She glanced back at the café behind her, then back to him. "We're looking for part-time help. Interested?"
He hesitated—after four failures, doubt had firmly taken root—but something in her steady gaze gave him courage. "Yes," he said simply, hoping this wouldn't become rejection number five.
---
Inside Fern & Finch, Mara and her husband Harold didn't waste time on formalities. They thrust him directly into a trial shift: kneading dough with inexperienced hands, pulling espresso shots with nervous concentration, taking orders while trying to memorize their point-of-sale system.
He spilled a tray of plates that crashed spectacularly and fumbled a latte that splashed across the counter. But instead of quitting, he apologized, cleaned his messes thoroughly, and continued. He noticed Harold's subtle nod of approval, and when Mara offered a small smile after he correctly handled a complicated order, something loosened in his chest.
When the lunch rush finally subsided, Mara approached him as he wiped down tables.
"We'll take you on," she said simply.
Nightborne's heart surged with relief. "Thank you. I promise I won't let you down."
"Shifts start at five tomorrow," Harold added, his gruff tone belying the kindness in his next words. "And our guest room is yours if you help around the house—yard work, meals, odd jobs. Fair trade?"
Nightborne stared at them, momentarily speechless at this unexpected lifeline. "Really? Thank you... I don't know what to say."
Harold shrugged. "Say you'll be on time tomorrow."
---
That afternoon, after sweeping floors until they gleamed and restocking ingredients with meticulous care, Mara led him up the narrow staircase to what would be his room. It wasn't much—a simple bed with clean linens, a small dresser with empty drawers, and a window overlooking the café sign below—but to Nightborne, it represented salvation. He set down his bag, the weight of accumulated tension finally easing from his shoulders. This was home, at least for now.
His first official day began before dawn. He fumbled with the café keys in the dark, swept the entryway clear of overnight debris, and lit the ovens for the day's first batch of pastries. By sunrise, he'd begun to internalize the rhythm of breakfast service—coffee orders flowing in predictable patterns, toast and jam assembled efficiently, fresh croissants arranged in the display case.
Between customers, he scrubbed tables until they shone and engaged with regulars, making mental notes of names and preferences that would make tomorrow easier. Mr. Chen liked his coffee black with one sugar. The woman with the red scarf—Eliza—always ordered a cinnamon roll and chamomile tea.
After the morning rush subsided, Harold took him to the small herb garden behind the café, demonstrating how to prune the basil and thyme with careful precision. When Mara needed help with bookkeeping, he learned basic ledger entries, his concentration absolute despite his fatigue. By midday, he'd mastered draining the industrial dish sink and developed his own system for restocking napkins and condiments.
When the lunch crowd arrived—professionals on tight schedules and mothers with impatient children—he carried plates with increasingly steady hands and offered genuine smiles that were beginning to feel natural again.
That evening, Mara set a plate of pasta in front of him in the kitchen. He ate silently, muscles aching but mind cataloging the day's new skills and small victories.
Climbing the stairs to his room that night, exhaustion made each step a challenge, but it was a different kind of tired than he'd known before—productive and earned. Lying on the mattress, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling, he reflected on the day's journey: the rejections that had stung, the confidence that had slowly returned, and the family that had taken in a stranger.
Out here, on Earth, there were no crystals to power him, no save points, no character stats to guide his progress. But there was work—honest, physical, meaningful work—and for now, that was enough.
Tomorrow, he would rise before the sun, slip back behind the counter with his apron tied tight, and continue learning. And every shift, every customer interaction, every small triumph would remind him: between warps, between worlds, he could build something real and lasting with his own two hands.